Falling, Flying
by isthisrubble
Summary: "On the screen, they started breaking Sherlock's fingers." Or: Sherlock (gets kidnapped), John (learns a great deal), and Q (might only be the second smartest computer geek in the country).
1. Then

_**WARNING: Limited descriptions of torture, minor character death. Will be uploaded to AO3 simultaneously if FF thinks it should be MA and takes it down.**_

**More Bondlock! This is my favourite crossover. Enjoy!**

**(The dates are my interpretation of Sherlock's timeline. It doesn't match John's blog, but then John's blog says that Harry is 36, and we know that Harry is older than John, but John is at least 36, surely? Anyway…)**

* * *

_August 2011_

Mycroft had been calling him every day for the last month before John actually picked up the phone.

It turned out that Mycroft wanted his help. John had half a mind not to help him, until he realised what Mycroft wanted him to do.

Moriarty might be dead, but his network still existed. Mycroft wanted his help to bring it down.

And bring it down they did.

* * *

_January 2013_

'Bond,' said M. 'Sit down.'

Bond did as he was told. 'A new mission, Sir?'

'MI5 want to borrow you.'

Oh dear. 'What for, sir?'

M replied with a single word: 'Moriarty.'

Ah. The Moriarty network was the bane of MI5 and MI6's existence at the moment. Perhaps sensing that its days were numbered, the remainder of the network had been causing havoc both in Britain and overseas.

'They require my skill set?'

'So it seems. It's a long assignment, 007. Over a month, and you'll be completely under their command.'

'When do I start?'

* * *

**REVIEW: ****_The Only One in the World: The Rise and Fall of Sherlock Holmes (Part 1 of 2)_****, BBC One, 8:30pm**

_'The world,' begins the narrator, 'is full of people. Each one of them is unique, but every now and then someone stands out as far more unique than the rest.' Despite sounding like something out of a George Orwell novel, this is a very good introduction to a fascinating story._

_Most viewers will have heard of Sherlock Holmes, his escapades as a detective fighting crime in London, and of the scandal surrounding the last months before his unexpected death. If anyone tuning into this documentary is hoping for a show condemning Holmes, however, they will be sorely disappointed. _

_This excellent documentary examines the man who styled himself as a "Consulting Detective," detailing his methods, cases and, ultimately, his death at the hands of the criminal, James Moriarty._

_The show gently probes Holmes's personal life, aided by the many appearances of John Watson, Holmes's friend and assistant. He tells most of the stories, bringing his friend vividly to life. _

_This documentary also makes good use of the small amount of footage and photographs we have of Holmes, coloured and fleshed out in parts by skilfully executed re-enactments._

_Viewers will also appreciate the explanation of the evidence presented at Sherlock Holmes's posthumous trial. It's one thing to read about a trial in the papers, another to understand it, and the writers have done their best to make sure you understand._

_Sit back, relax, and let yourself slip into the true crime story of the decade._

* * *

_I would like to congratulate the BBC and all those involved in the making of the excellent documentary on Sherlock Holmes. It did a wonderful job of bringing his story to life. I believe in Sherlock Holmes, and I'm sure the rest of Britain does too._

**_Bridget Clark, South Yorkshire_**


	2. Now

_February 2013_

Mycroft had been having a good day. The Prime Minister had been using his brain for once, no threats of war, no natural disasters expected. The day turned sour, however, at precisely 3:08 PM.

'Sir, Emergency Broadcast Protocol One's been unlawfully initiated. You might want to see this.'

Mycroft felt his jaw tighten, the only evidence of his shock. Only a handful of people even _knew_ about Emergency Broadcast Protocol One. And the security programme surrounding it had been designed by the best. Whoever had managed this… Jolting his mind back to the immediate problem, he turned to the screen.

He saw two men with guns and balaclavas. Ex military, both of them. One other man tied to a chair, but obscured one of the gunmen, the leader. Blank, unrecognisable room.

Terrorists, possibly. Islamists who couldn't find themselves an American target, maybe. Possibly anarchists; some Russian individuals had been on their radar for a few months. But when the leader spoke, his accent was impeccably English.

'Hello, people of Britain.' A pause. 'I'm sure you're all wondering what's going on, but there's no need to panic, you're not in danger. We've just taken over your TVs for an hour or so. We just want to prove a few things to your leaders.

'You've all heard of Moriarty, and how they're hunting his people down. But they haven't got us yet. And we're going to make them pay for what they've done. Mr British government, I'm talking to you.' Mycroft leaned forward slightly. How did a low level grunt know about him?

'MI5, police, don't even think about sending anyone in to stop us. You might find us, but if anyone gets even close to where we are, I'll have to detonate something rather big.' He waved a small remote at the camera. 'It'll level an entire block. So don't try anything. Just watch.

'So, Mr British Government, let's get started. My move first, I think. Did you know this one was missing?' He stepped aside.

_Sherlock._

_How -_

He had a moment of blind panic before autopilot took over.

'Find out where they are, and whether he's bluffing. And call MI5 and six, their agent should be able to give us some data.'

* * *

What he couldn't believe was how they'd recognised him. His identity was secure, his disguise perfect. Sherlock hardly knew himself in the second hand clothes, blonde hair and scared face. But, it seemed, to Maximilian Botha and his gang he was instantly recognisable.

He'd thought he was safe. Botha and his men were the last of Moriarty's network, and, as far as Sherlock was concerned, not much of a threat. Of course, that was before they'd grabbed him off the street, knocked him out and took him away.

Sherlock processed all of this as he tried to work out where he was, without opening his eyes. He was sitting on a hard, metal chair inside a room that had some form of ventilation, however it wasn't regulated enough to be underground. Judging by the temperature and the scent of the air, unairconditioned. If it was roughly the same temperature inside as out, then, he hadn't been unconscious for more than two hours.

Location established (sort of), he turned his attention to himself. His hands were bound to the arms of the chair and his legs had received similar treatment. There was a painful lump on the back of his head from what he was sure had been a cricket bat.

A hand, gloved in rough leather, touched his jaw and Sherlock flinched involuntarily, then grimaced, knowing he'd given himself away. _Damn._

A man gave a hoarse laugh, and Sherlock opened his eyes. Three men stood in front of him, all dressed identically in black fatigues, boots, gloves and balaclavas, reminding Sherlock of the SAS. Two of them, including Botha, whose voice he'd recognised, definitely were ex army, which made sense, as Botha regularly recruited SAS rejects and men who'd been dishonourably discharged. The third had a different stance, and Sherlock thought it likely that he was a navy man. He was the only one with a drawn gun.

'Well, Mr Holmes, we've finally got you. You've been running around after us for long enough.' He paused, clearly expecting Sherlock to speak, but what was he supposed to say? Was he expected to beg? 'Time to show you what happens to men like you. Is it ready?' he asked the last person in the room, a young woman who couldn't have looked more out of place if she tried. She was sitting at a table, surrounded by computer equipment.

'Nearly… There! Turn on the camera.' The navy man did so, and Sherlock suddenly realised - he was too slow, perhaps he had concussion - that the camera was pointing straight at him, although far enough away to show his whole body. The other army man disappeared out of the room as Botha took up a position in front of the camera and navy man held his gun to Sherlock's temple.

'Do it now.'

The girl started typing again. 'Three… two… one…' there was complete silence for a moment, then the army man shouted from another room: 'The symbol's up!'

Botha turned to the girl, who was waiting for something. Then she mouthed "Now."

Through Botha's monologue, Sherlock tried hard not to show his fear. He'd expected to be shot clean in the head. He _hated_ being wrong.

'Now,' said Botha, turning to Sherlock, who was sure he could _hear_ the bastard smiling. 'Let's start with the fingers, shall we?'

* * *

He was visiting Harry that day. She'd been making more of an effort, in the last two years, to look after herself and stay sober. Why then, all of a sudden, he'd never asked her, but he wondered sometimes if it was because of him, because Sherlock -

No.

He _refused_ to let himself think of _him_. There was too much he'd -

_No._

Eyes forward, soldier.

He'd got no sympathy from their mother. She thought John was a fool, and said so. Harry, much to his surprise, had defended him. She'd never even met _him_, yet she believed in him.

The football was on, but he wasn't really watching it until the symbol started flashing on the screen.

'John, what's…' said Harry, confused. John sat up straighter and stared.

'Emergency broadcast. Something's happening, the government must have to…' His thoughts strayed to Mycroft, and he pushed the image away angrily. That wasn't his life anymore.

'Hello, people of Britain…' They listened in stunned silence. John's mind was whirling. He knew enough about Moriarty's gangs to know that someone was about to die, and he felt sick.

When the leader stepped aside, however, he felt as if the floor had fallen out from under him.

_Sherlock._

Sherlock, alive.

Sherlock, about to be killed.

Nononononononono…

He wasn't aware of getting up and turning around until Harry was in front of him, grabbing his arm.

'Where are you going?'

Anywhere but here. He couldn't do it, couldn't watch. 'Out. Away. I can't watch -'

'And if you don't? What'll you do, sit at home alone, pretend it isn't happening? No, you'll be on the phone to me or that policeman every five minutes, asking what's happening, or you'll watch it on your own. Believe me, I'd rather you watch it here.'

No.

No, he couldn't.

Sherlock -

_He'd never abandoned Sherlock._

He couldn't start now.

On the screen, they started breaking Sherlock's fingers.

* * *

They might not have known who he really was, but they all knew what was happening, had seen some of the footage, knew that he was trying to stop the transmission. So he didn't stop R from taking charge. He didn't ask about the cups of tea that kept appearing at his elbow. God, was that tea needed.

Q had to hand it to them, or at least their hacker. It was a supreme piece of work, done by someone just as good as him. Whoever they were, they blocked his every move, keeping the broadcast on air. All he managed to do was cause a few seconds of static once or twice.

What frightened him most, however, was what would happen to Sherlock if Q _did_ manage to stop them.

On the screen, his brother screamed, and Q bowed his head in despair.

* * *

He managed not to scream while they broke his fingers. Botha did it slowly, one by one, taunting both Sherlock and Mycroft, who was almost certainly watching everything. By the time all his fingers were broken, Sherlock wished someone would be sent in, just so that they would all be blown up and killed. He was keenly aware, whoever, of both Mycroft's high opinion of his ability to fix everything, and of navy man's gun at his temple. He didn't dare try to send a message to anyone watching.

He finally screamed when Botha started on his right foot with a hammer.

The pain was excruciating, like nothing he'd ever felt before, not even when he'd been shot in the ribs. He only wanted it to end, quickly, or at least he wished he would pass out, but navy man poked and pinched him whenever his eyes glazed over.

Pain. Impossible pain, and fear, too, although why, he wasn't sure, but it wasn't just the pain…

The camera…

Another toe, blinding pain, and then -

No… no…

John…

_John._

He stared at the camera in horror. John would be watching, of course he would, watching Sherlock die again and again and…

He was selfish, everyone always said he was, and here was proof, because all he wanted was to know that John would be watching while he died, to know that he was there…

They were laughing at him, Botha and navy man. They'd finished mutilating his feet and navy man turned to his boss. 'Should be shoot him now, put him out of his misery?'

Botha snorted and turned to the camera again. He was gloating now. 'Until tomorrow, folks, same time, same -'

Movement behind him -

BAM.

Botha collapsed, a ragged red hole in the back of his head.

The tech girl screamed as navy man advanced on her, but he changed his grip on the gun and knocked her out instead. Sherlock had no idea what was going on and was almost past caring. If he was going to die, he hoped it would be quick.

Navy man turned and ran out of the room as army man shouted for Botha. A moment later Sherlock heard another gunshot.

A minute later navy man was back in the room. He went straight to the camera. 'Sorry about that. This is Bond, targets eliminated. Medical evac would be appreciated.' He yanked the chords out of the camera and computer, cutting off the connection.

He turned back to Sherlock. 'I couldn't do it beforehand, he was too alert. Hey, can you hear me?' Sherlock bit his lip to keep himself awake. He needed a distraction.

'You're ex navy. What are you now, MI5?'

Bond snorted. 'Well, at least your head's still working. Yes, ex navy, but I'm MI6. I'm on load to five.'

'MI6?' Oh. 'I've got a brother at MI6…' God, everything hurt like _fuck_…

'Really? What does he do?' Bond was trying to keep him awake.

'He's a computer tech… a genius, really…'

'Huh. Well, I'll have to look out for him - Hey! Look at me! You're going into shock, you need to stay awake until the medics come.'

He managed, just. He passed out just as the first medic arrived.

* * *

Q, AKA Alex Hamilton, AKA Winston Holmes leaned back in his chair as the screen in front of him cut to static. He took off his glasses and buried his face in his hands. It was over, finally. His brother was alive and in safe hands again. Thank God for James Bond.

_Ah._ Q's head jerked up again. Bond was working with MI5. That meant they might think it was their responsibility to look after Sherlock, and Q didn't think he could bear that.

He touched his earpiece. 'Tanner?'

* * *

After ten tense minute of complete silence, John's phone rang. It was Mycroft.

'He's alive. He's safe.'

There was only one question, then. 'Where?'


	3. After

**It's probably evident in this that I have zero medical knowledge. Enjoy!**

* * *

The darkness ended abruptly, as if someone had pulled him out from underwater. Wherever he was now, it was white and light. The bed he was in was soft. He didn't remember how he got there, and that was high up on the list of things that were definitely Not Good.

As comfortable as it was, he needed to get out of there before they worked out who he was.

No. That wasn't right. He'd just been - what, exactly? - something about television. Wherever he was, they already knew who he was.

'Sherlock?'

He knew that voice, surely? From too long ago…

'Sherlock, can you hear me?'

Of course. They hadn't done anything to his ears, had they?

What _had_ they done to him? He was in pain, certainly, his extremities felt like they were on fire, he couldn't…

Darkness started to cloud his vision. No, not…

'Sherlock, Sherlock, hey…' A face swam into his clouded vision. The glasses were all wrong, but the face matched the voice. He'd said he had a brother in MI6, hadn't he…

He was in safe hands, then. He stopped fighting the blackness, and it engulfed him.

* * *

When he surfaced again, his brain was producing intelligent, coherent, full sentences, which meant he was hopefully going to stay awake. His memory had improved, too, thank God.

He looked around. First impressions made him think "hospital," but there was something off about the colouring of the room. And then, of course, there was his brother. Winston was sitting at his bedside. 'Hello, you're awake.'

'So it would seem. Am I at MI6?'

His brother smiled. 'Good guess. We couldn't exactly take you to a hospital, could we?' No. Not considering the media attention.

'What have they done to me?' He didn't want to look at his limbs. 'I'm all numb.'

Winston shrugged. 'You've had surgery on your feet. There won't be any permanent damage, but it'll take time to heal. As for your hands… let's just say you won't be playing violin for a while.' That didn't mean never. He'd missed that violin.

Suddenly something else occurred to him. 'Why are you here? Winston Holmes died years ago, what's the connection between me and your new identity?'

Winston shrugged again, now looking slightly smug. 'Mycroft pulled some strings, and I'm pretty influential myself now. I can do what I like a lot of the time.' At Sherlock's raised eyebrow, he elaborated. 'I'm Q, Quartermaster. That's head of technology and weapons.'

Sherlock stared, stunned. 'Well… It seems Mycroft was right about your potential.'

'Quite.'

They sat in comfortable silence for ten minutes or so while Sherlock took stock of his situation. He refused to think about what he'd been through in the last few hours. He boxed it up and hid it in a cupboard in the mind palace, the same thing he'd done when he'd realised that he was in lo-

Abruptly, they heard raised voices.

'- do you mean, I can't go in?'

'Doctor Sykes, really, I must insist -'

The doctor said something, then suddenly there was a commotion and a lot of shouting.

_John._

'Doctor Sykes, I am -' Mycroft sounded furious.

'I don't care who you are! He can't come in, you can't come in! That's my final word.'

No. No, he had to see John, he needed to talk to him. 'Winston…'

His brother frowned at the door. 'We'll get him in, Sherlock.'

* * *

They didn't.

Doctor Sykes, MI6's head doctor, refused to let John in, as he was neither related to Sherlock nor an MI6 employee. He even refused to let Mycroft in, as he couldn't identify himself, despite M himself intervening.

It was two weeks before Sherlock could be moved from MI6 to a very private hospital where he was guarantied protection from the press.

He could also have as many guests as he liked.

* * *

The nurse led him to Sherlock's room and paused, her hand on the door handle. 'He's the most frustrating patient we've had in _years._ He refuses to take his pain medication half the time, and then he complains when he can't sleep. If you can talk some sense into him…'

Entering the room, John could tell straight away that Sherlock was in pain simply by looking at him. He was probably refusing his medication and pretending not to need it in an (useless) attempt to get the doctors to let him out early.

The pained look vanished as soon as their eyes met. Sherlock seemed to be struggling between relief and fear.

'What's wrong?' asked John, forgoing greetings in favour of crossing the room quickly. 'Are you alright?' Stupid question, because even when he was badly injured, Sherlock was always just _fine_. His face became a closed book again.

'I can't play the violin,' he said petulantly. 'I can't do _anything_.'

'Rubbish.' Sherlock gave him a sharp look. 'You can clearly talk, since you've barely shut up since you arrived, judging by the frazzled nerves of the staff. But that's not what I meant.' Sherlock shifted uncomfortably. 'As soon as I came in, you looked scared. Why?' No answer. 'Sherlock, look at me,' he said softly. 'I'm -'

'Aren't you angry?' demanded the detective. 'I faked my own dead. I lied to you. I put you in danger. Surely that's got to be very Not Good?'

John couldn't help it. He laughed.

It was the best thing he could have done, because eventually Sherlock laughed too, even if he still looked unsure.

'Sherlock, you… Mycroft's told me everything you've told him. You saved…' God, this was harder than he'd expected. 'I never hated you, if that's what you meant. And I…' Sherlock was still refusing to look at John. 'Fine. Sherlock Holmes, I forgive you for faking your death and lying to me. Are we good now?'

Sherlock shook his head distractedly. He glanced at John and then away again, flushed suddenly pink. John lent back in his seat. Sherlock was thinking about something, something that didn't require his input, so John did some thinking of his own.

He swept his gaze over his friend's long form. He'd missed worrying about how thin he was (very) or how close to death he'd come (very). Weeks of forced bed rest had filled out the hollow cheeks somewhat, however, and his limbs looked less delicate.

He realised he was staring, but Sherlock didn't seem to have noticed. John almost wished he would. He wanted Sherlock to know how he felt; he wanted Sherlock to talk about _them_. He wanted Sherlock to look him in the eye and say, "Yes."

He just wanted _Sherlock_. John mentally bashed his head against a wall. A month ago he'd had given anything for Sherlock simply to be alive. He should be thankful, not selfishly wishing for more.

He glanced up at his friend, then flushed at the intensity of Sherlock's gaze. Sherlock frowned slightly. 'You still care.'

'What?'

'You have seen what I'm like, what it's like to live with me. You know how dangerous being my friend is. You've seen it first hand. Yet you still care. Why?'

'Sherlock…' And there it was. That was how Sherlock Holmes's brain worked, always had and always would. 'You can't just turn caring on and off like a tap.'

Sherlock turned away again. 'I will destroy you.'

What?

'You'll ask me to move back to Baker St as soon as I can, and I'll say yes, because I have nowhere else to go,' he was talking fast, almost feverishly so, 'and because I like you. We'll solve crimes, we'll be shot at, we'll make enemies. And they will use you again, and next time perhaps they'll succeed. You'll be destroyed, because of me.'

'Do you think I don't know all that? Why d'you think I stayed? Why d'you think I'm here now?'

'I won't -'

'Sherlock -'

'_It can't happen again!_ It. Can't. Happen. Again. Do you understand? I won't let them - You can't -' He banged his head against the headboard. 'I would have died to save you. I didn't, but I would have, and Moriarty may be gone, but there will be others, and they'll -'

Oh. _Oh._

Quickly, before Sherlock could say anything more, John lent forward and kissed him.

Sherlock froze, and John heard him make a strange, squeaky noise in the back of the throat. If he hadn't been slightly in shock himself (He was _kissing Sherlock_, how the hell had that happened?), he would have laughed.

They broke apart and John looked at Sherlock again. The detective took a deep, shaky breath in and said 'John…'

'I don't care, Sherlock. If I wasn't willing to risk it, I would have found another flat after we met Moriarty. But I'm still here, and I'm not going anywhere.'

Sherlock, instead of being reassured, looked scared. 'I've never done this before,' he said slowly. 'Been… serious about someone before.'

It didn't matter. They'd still be Sherlock and John, consultants, flatmates, the doctor and the detective. They'd still argue about experiments and the state of the fridge. They'd still be _them_.

'It'll be fine, Sherlock.' John lent his forehead against Sherlock's, synchronising their breathing.

Sherlock said very quietly: 'Are you sure?'

John snuffed a laugh. 'You know me. Deduce it.' Sherlock's head shifted slightly and his lips ghosted across John's. He closed his eyes. 'Yes, Sherlock, of course I'm sure.'

They sat together for a long time. John listened to Sherlock's breathing, timing it, relishing in the warmth of his breath against John's cheek. He was alive. He was safe.

Finally John's neck started to cramp, and he reluctantly straightened up. Looking at Sherlock, he could see that his (Friend? Boyfriend? Partner?) was starting to overthink the situation. Time to lighten things up.

'Sherlock, you have to take your medication. You're not helping your recovery.'

'Of course.' Sherlock smiled. 'Still worried about my health, I see.'

'I'm being sensible.'

'Shut up.'

'Make me.'

He did.

* * *

**That's it! Please review!**

**Kudos to Matthew Reilly for the inspiration and character names, and Morris Gleitzman for the chapter titles.**


End file.
